She used to sit just outside the library on the stairs where all the diligent and geeky students gathered. She had this school teacher vibe about her, always appearing to be in-tune with her books or deep in thought with something totally profound.

She had this habit of slowly running her fingers through her thinly braided human hair and tossing her head back as if posing for an L’Oreal advert. Then she’d meticulously shift her glasses with her middle finger and smile. And those dimples would appear! Each smile enticed the flowerbeds to laugh and the bees to weep with joy.

Students suddenly found things to do near the library, and it brought sunshine and rain to the otherwise staked-out me, because at this point in time, I was already planning to make a move on her, but the timing was just not right!!! To be honest, I guess I also feared to hear what always pisses most guys out there, “a no”. It was at this point that I took a pause and tried to ask myself: “Why I am acutely worried of losing her when she’s not even mine?” Perhaps, I never thought of her as belonging to someone else besides me, fate!

She was one fine piece of work, perfect in every way. Unfortunately, like everyone else she had her flaws. She had an alter ego friend, who was nothing like her. When she stood up from that perfect spot and headed to the cafeteria, her friend instantaneously influenced her. Her lips pouted, her brisk walk became a swanky swagger and her sweet eyes turned into red seduction. Whether she was herself or her friend, that so amazing body could send you to heaven.

Uncharacteristically, she was sometimes seen with a blonde-haired boy who wore diamond earrings… undignified Clown! He‘d be caring her school bags lagging some odd meters behind her with her girlfriends, smuggling on her every step. “Miss Revlon, my friends called her”

Opposed to bad hair days, running stockings, cheap geans and black taxis, she’d have her mother’s canary-blue Uno parked outside the girl’s Residence ready to take her wherever she desires to go. Once or twice someone told me they saw her in a silver Porsche Boxster cruising down Bellville’s notorious Modderdum Road heading downstream – straight for hell, dressed for the occasion.

According to the rumors, Monday, Wednesday and Friday were the only days she attended classes. Tuesday and Thursday became the only days the boys would actually learn something. In-between classes you saw young wannabe suitors tearing the halls with full eyeballs, searching for their page 48 girl (playboy centerfold).

When she wasn’t at lectures she was taking part in B-grade beauty peagents, like Miss Jam Alley or Miss Duku- Duku. It didn’t require much from her. She was made for it. In front of a camera, she couldn’t be out-done. Something can definitely be said about how she always appeared in the same pose every time she was in front of a camera. The same head tilt, the same angle the same faithful smile. No matter where it was, she always complimented the photographer. The girls who knew her’d swear on their mother’s lives that they’ve never seen her without make- up on, but you’d hardly notice it, especially if you’re not often seeing her. It seemed she was up hours before everyone and was always clean and proper by the time everyone saw her.

A riot almost broke out the night she came “3^rd last” in a varsity beauty pageant. My, was she perfect that night...Maybe, maybe not!! The truth is we nattered, kissed a few times, and I probably would have made it a home base, if I hadn’t feared for my life. The black SL 500 that stopped coming to pay regular visits suddenly made a comeback, and there was no way my 2 Series White Leathered Jack Parcel would have been able to burn much rubber.

So I returned to the varsity hallways to find myself an actual ideal girlfriend. One that didn’t have the branding “belongs to ex-political prisoner”. She was humble, humorous and sweet. She had the cutest little freckles. She didn’t want to be on TV and didn’t care much about going out. She wore things like dungarees and shaved all her hair below the ear from time to time. That’s how I fluttered myself from that moment on, till we met again a decade after and had an intense natter since that incident. From then, we fixed the bridge cracks, got over the suspense and decided to push it to the side that’s without much friction.

We now are on top of the real game, I guess she is after all the “ideal girl I’ve ever had a strong sentiment for in my entire life, and as long as she’s faithful to me I see a future for us”. So what does perfect or ideal really mean if everyone you meet has her flaws?